


Perilous

by sciencefictioness



Category: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice (Video Game)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Courtship, Injury, M/M, Mating Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Scent Kink, Scent Marking, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21702928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: Genichiro could have stayed there forever, eyes closed as blood poured from his neck, drawing in Wolf’s scent like a drug.  He’d gotten hints of it before— with Wolf’s sword buried in his guts. Wolf’s knees bent, bracing himself against Genichiro’s weight as he drove his blade in deep, Genichiro muttering the only prayer he knows.Ashina, Ashina.Wolf is the most vicious creature Genichiro has ever met, but he smells like lotus and sakura and something in Genichiro unspools every time he pulls him into his lungs.  There is no such thing as a destined mate, in spite of what all the folklore says, but compatibility is a powerful thing.Wolf is a powerful thing.  Genichiro cannot help but want him.
Relationships: Genichiro Ashina/Sekiro | Wolf
Comments: 17
Kudos: 342





	Perilous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keio/gifts).



> Warnings for intersex omegaverse biology. BIG thanks to dae for the beta read/editing. You are in fact the best!!!
> 
> Please enjoy!

Severance is an inelegant thing— blades with more power than should be wielded by any man. Gates that were meant to remain closed. 

It doesn’t unfold the way anyone expects. Genichiro doesn’t know why they’re surprised. Doesn’t know why  _ he  _ is surprised.

Things rarely go according to plan, especially when those plans are dug up in ancient scrolls and cobbled together with little more than endless will and desperation. Kuro lives, mortal now as far as anyone can tell. He bleeds, at least.

He doesn’t, because Wolf won’t allow him to, but the tip of his shuriken sinks into Kuro’s fingertip enough to show the truth of it. 

Wolf lives, but it’s less clear how deeply severance has cut him. He can still wield the mortal blade, but there is no way to know if Kuro’s blood still holds sway over him. Not without risking his death, which Kuro isn’t keen on doing. Wolf and Emma are all he has, now, and Kuro has never had the same loyalty to Ashina that Genichiro does. 

He wonders what it’s like to live inside Ashina without feeling her in every breath. In every brittle bone, every inch of skin, every ragged heartbeat. What it’s like to live in her without living for her. Isshin had planted something in Genichiro without realizing how deeply it would take root. Isshin...

Isshin is gone.

Genichiro lives on in his place, against all odds. Stitched together, scarred and broken. He doesn’t remember everything from those days that came after, but he remembers enough. Remembers Emma pressing pellets onto his tongue, Wolf pinning him down and keeping him from thrashing as she forced water from her gourd down his throat. Remembers burning up with fever, shaking with it until it felt like he’d fall to pieces.

Remembers tucking his nose into Wolf’s throat, breathing through the agony of Emma’s needles in his flesh when he tore his wound open before the sediment could mend him. It works more slowly, now. Gives Genichiro enough time to feel it. In that moment, he didn’t mind. Genichiro could have stayed there forever, eyes closed as blood poured from his neck, drawing in Wolf’s scent like a drug. He’d gotten hints of it before— with Wolf’s sword buried in his guts. Wolf’s knees bent, bracing himself against Genichiro’s weight as he drove his blade in deep, Genichiro muttering the only prayer he knows.

Ashina, Ashina.

Wolf is the most vicious creature Genichiro has ever met, but he smells like lotus and sakura and something in Genichiro unspools every time he pulls him into his lungs.

Something in him goes loose, and soothed and blissful.

Then Genichiro snarls, because Wolf is his, and no else’s. There’s an instinct that he’s never felt before, rising in Genichiro to make a fool of him. He wants to pull Wolf close and keep him there. Mark him with his scent, and his bite, and his favor. There is no such thing as a destined mate, in spite of what all the folklore says, but compatibility is a powerful thing.

Wolf is a powerful thing. Genichiro cannot help but want him. 

All of Ashina is at Genichiro’s feet; the land, the people. Gods both old and new. Genichiro isn’t narcissistic enough to think it all belongs to him— Ashina isn’t something that can be owned. None of it is explicitly Genichiro’s, but everyone bows. Everyone yields. Everyone looks to him and waits for orders, save one.

Wolf isn’t his. Wolf is Kuro’s first, then his own, and Genichiro’s last of all. 

There is an uneasy truce between them, mostly at Kuro’s insistence now that immortality has been severed. He lives in his tower, taking refuge in Ashina castle as Wolf holds back the Ministry’s forces as best he can. Ashina’s troops are revitalized; not even death can take their lord from them. 

Wolf keeps back the tide of the Ministry where all of Genichiro’s generals could not. Wolf, who cut him down.

Wolf, who was cut down by him. From time to time Genichiro thinks of his sword slicing through Wolf’s flesh and feels like he might be sick. Acid in his mouth, stomach churning; it swells, and it passes. His left arm aches, like the bones don’t fit right. 

None of Genichiro fits right, anymore.

He spends weeks in his room licking his wounds, convincing himself that he doesn’t want the things he cannot have— immortality. Ashina at peace.

Wolf in his bed, Genichiro’s teeth tattooed in his throat for everyone to see.

Then he sees him again, and all that pretense falls away. Genichiro  _ wants. _

He doesn’t know how to ask for things that he can’t take on his own with steel and arrows vicious aggression. Doesn’t know how to make Wolf want him, too. Genichiro has spent his whole life struggling for things— his skill in battle, the respect of his people, freedom for his clan— but never something like this. 

Never someone like this.

Genichiro doesn’t know what to do, so he puts on his armor and straps on his bow and fights for Ashina. It comes like breathing. Like the beating of his heart.

It is easy even when he’s bleeding.

If nothing else, Genichiro knows how to do this.

-

Wolf slinks over the rooftops with the nightjar, an uneasy truce stretching between them. They don’t fight together— Wolf doesn’t fight alongside anyone— but there is no posturing, either. No unspoken tension where conflict might erupt, if only Genichiro’s word wasn’t law. 

Nightjar. Ministry assassins. Shinobi. 

They have their differences, but one thing remains the same— there are no alphas among them, no omegas. No strong scents giving them away, no matter how many herbs they drink. No troubling instincts to yield, or attack where it isn’t necessary.

Genichiro looks out the windows and watches Wolf slip unseen high above the streets. He sneaks past the nightjar more often than not. Whether it’s habit or Wolf simply doesn’t want them to know where he is, Genichiro isn’t sure. They’re still coming across stray Ministry troops here and there, testing the castle’s defenses, feeling for weaknesses. They don’t often find them.

They find Wolf instead.

Wolf finds  _ them _ instead.

Sometimes it’s in hidden corners of the castle grounds, far away from prying eyes. Wolf puts them down outside the serpent shrine, or in the dungeon, or creeping up from the reservoir. 

Sometimes it’s out in the open, and Genichiro stares from the tower lookout as Wolf sneaks up behind them. Gets close enough that it should be impossible— how can they not feel the heat of him? How can they not catch his scent?

How can they do anything besides turn, and lean in close, and breathe him in?

Wolf wraps an arm around them, hand splayed over their faces as he presses the sharp tip of Kusabimaru against their throat. It always drags on for a moment too long in Genichiro’s memory— the way he holds them there, the side of his face against theirs, their eyes so very wide. It’s intimate in an agonizing way. Too close. Too quiet. 

Then he sinks his blade in deep and lets them fall to the ground, blood on his sword and eyes bright.

All Genichiro can think is that it wouldn’t be so bad. That it wasn’t so bad.

There are worse ways to go than on the edge of Wolf’s sword.

-

He comes across them in the hallway, Wolf trailing behind Lord Kuro, heading to the library if Genichiro were to hazard a guess. Kuro greets him, polite as ever. 

“Good evening Lord Genichiro, are you well?”

Genichiro grunts out a response, unable to look anywhere but Wolf. He’s still got blood on his clothes, swathes of red on his arms. It’s no way for a lord to look when they’re traipsing through the castle, but Wolf is not a lord, and Kuro is well used to seeing him like this; bloodied and battle worn, a shadow that only strays when he commands. 

“I saw you in the streets today, picking off that Ministry swordsman,” Genichiro says, then wonders why he spoke at all. Wolf cocks his head to the side in silence, waiting. 

Genichiro doesn’t have anything else to say. Doesn’t understand why he wants Wolf to know he was watching. 

Wants Wolf to know that’s it’s beautiful, seeing him take lives. That it stirs something in him that has always lain quiet. Genichiro doesn’t realize his eyes are lit up crimson until Wolf steps in front of Kuro with his lips curled back from his teeth and he sees the light play across his face. Doesn’t notice the rumble of a growl low in his throat until Wolf echoes the sound. 

Wolf draws himself up to his full height as though it makes any difference, lifts his chin high. Postures, the way an alpha would posture at someone they saw as a threat. Wolf reaches behind himself, laying a palm against Kuro’s chest to keep him back as though he might rush forward into danger. 

As though  _ Genichiro  _ is the danger.

Kuro frowns at them both, gaze lingering on Genichiro’s vivid red stare.

“Are you certain you’re well, my Lord?” 

He isn’t well at all. 

The light in an alpha’s irises can only mean a few things, but explaining that his are not bright from aggression requires more words than Genichiro is capable of right then. 

_ I mean your master no harm, shinobi. _

_ I only want my teeth in you. _

The sharp scent of Wolf’s mistrust cuts through the air between them. An alpha’s threat, less potent from Wolf than it would be from someone else, but no less serious. There is the ghost of red in his eyes. Wolf is not an alpha.

A beta is whatever they need to be, whenever they need it. Right now, Wolf thinks he needs to keep Kuro safe from harm, and there is nothing and no one more dangerous than an alpha protecting their young. Kuro is his, the same way he is Kuro’s, and Wolf thinks Genichiro wants a fight.

Genichiro is a fool, but at least he isn’t the only one.

He shoulders past Wolf with a snarl, furious with everyone. With himself for craving Wolf so intensely, unable to set it aside. With Wolf for being blind to it.

With Kuro for having a claim on Wolf, even if it’s not at all the same as the one Genichiro wants for himself. They both almost died trying to cut those ties; that should be enough.

It isn’t. Nothing will be until he can bring himself to put words to his desires. Genichiro can’t, and even if he could, it doesn’t mean Wolf would be interested. 

Courtship is delicate. They’ve already gutted one another, and Genichiro has never made things easy. Anyone in Ashina would fall all over themselves at the chance to be his mate.

Anyone but Wolf, so of course that’s who he wants. No one else is strong enough. No one else is worthy. 

Only someone who has sunk their blade into Genichiro’s heart and stilled its beating would understand.

It is Wolf, or it is no one.

Genichiro grabs his weapons and heads into the dojo.

-

The tanto is a work of art painted for war. A simple blade, the steel shining and holding an edge that tells Genichiro that his servants have been taking good care of his things. The sheath has a wolf etched into it, curling from one side to the other. There are countless old, beautiful weapons littered around Ashina castle. He must have seen it a thousand times throughout the years without ever really looking at it.

He’s looking at it, now. Genichiro runs his fingers over the hilt, the wrappings old but in excellent shape; tightly wound blue silk, waves decorating the copper of the hand guard. It’s beautiful, and dangerous.

It reminds him of Wolf.

He’s halfway across the castle before he realizes what he means to do, but Genichiro is too stubborn to turn back once he’s set upon a course. There’s no hesitation when he reaches Wolf’s chambers, even if his heart is pounding like he’s getting ready for a fight. Genichiro knocks on the wall. Waits. 

The door slides to the side to reveal Wolf frowning with Sabimaru in hand. His hair is down, and damp. His scarf is missing. It’s different than seeing Wolf bloody. 

Even these small instances of dishevelment have Genichiro’s teeth aching in his jaw. Wolf looks past Genichiro first, finding the halls empty, then finally meets his eyes.

“Lord Genichiro.”

It’s been a while since he’s had cause to come to Wolf’s quarters. Genichiro closes his eyes and tries to steel himself against the onslaught of scent, thick and overpowering where Wolf spends his spare time sleeping and tending his weapons, waiting to be summoned. He is not often idle, but the hours he’s lingered here are writ into the very air. Soaked into his futon, the wall he leans against when he sharpens his blades, the place he stands when he changes clothes. Wolf has probably not had anywhere to call his own like this since Hirata all those years ago.

He’s made a home inside of Genichiro’s castle, however fleeting. Something ancient in Genichiro glories at the thought.

Wolf is still staring when he opens his eyes again. Genichiro knows they’re lit red when Wolf tenses at the sight of them. It isn’t fear.

Only readiness. Kuro isn’t here, and Wolf isn’t afraid of Genichiro on his own.

Anyone else would be prompting Genichiro to speak.  _ How may I serve you, is there something you needed? Is everything all right, Lord Genichiro? _

Wolf is quiet, brows furrowed, waiting. Genichiro grinds his teeth together, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. It isn’t going to get easier, no matter how long he stands there.

Genichiro reaches into the folds of his clothes and pulls out the tanto, wrapped in a scrap of silk, and holds it out in offering. He sees Wolf tense even further for an instant before realizing that Genichiro hasn’t drawn on him. As if it would matter if he had.

As if all the weapons in Ashina would be enough to cut Wolf down. They hadn’t been.

They will not be.

Wolf sheathes Sabimaru and takes the tanto from Genichiro, frown intensifying. It isn’t a traditional courtship offering, but there is nothing traditional about anything they’ve done. By all rights, Genichiro should be courting some omega picked out by the clan elders, giving them silk kimono and ornate fans while they flush and avert their eyes. Not all omegas are so demure, but whoever the elders chose surely would have been. Meek, and obedient. Everything Genichiro should want.

Nothing he wants. 

The timing is right, at least. Courtship gifts are given in the evening and returned the next morning if the receiving party is uninterested, or kept if they’ll allow an alpha to continue seeking their affection.

Wolf unfolds the silk and looks at the weapon, sparing only the briefest of glances for the decoration on the hilt before unsheathing it to inspect the steel. He holds it up to the light. Presses his thumb against the edge.

“A fine blade,” he says, and Genichiro can’t help the guttural rumbling in his chest, or the way lust spikes hot and bright through his scent.

Wolf is pleased by his offering. His growl surges, the red in his eyes gleaming brighter. Wolf cocks his head to the side at the sound, still frowning. Genichiro is nothing but instinct, and he doesn’t trust himself. He wants to bury his face in Wolf’s throat. Wants to pick him up, tug off all those layers and feel him, skin on skin.

Wants to bite him, and fuck him, and bond him, so that no one else will ever dare to think he could be theirs. 

He bows instead and vanishes down the hall, mind a whirlwind. Will he find the tanto outside his door in the morning? Will Wolf take offense to his courtship, after everything he’s done?

What else can he give Wolf that will put the same look on his face as something made to cut through flesh and cleave bone? 

Genichiro goes back to his room with the memory of Wolf’s scent in his nose. He lays down on his futon and takes himself in both hands, knot swollen as he closes his fingers around it as far as they will go. Kneads at it, stroking his other palm up his cock as he thinks of Wolf, wet for him. Wolf with bright red eyes, snarling. 

Wolf plunging a sword into him, stronger than Genichiro. Stronger than anyone.

Genichiro comes, mouth pressed against his shoulder to muffle his growl, knot swelling uselessly between his fingers. He squeezes them tighter, another pulse of wetness dripping onto his stomach. It’s filthy.  _ He’s  _ filthy.

Genichiro doesn’t care.

It’s hard for him to fall asleep, and when he does he’s restless, waking every so often to find himself seething. He hopes the Ministry will show itself today.

Genichiro needs Wolf, but in his absence, blood on his sword will have to do.

-

There is nothing waiting outside of Genichiro’s door. 

Wolf’s quarters are empty— he’s been gone for hours, probably, prowling through the early morning with eyes that pierce the darkness. He’s taken all his weapons with him, as he always does. Genichiro peers in from the doorway. The tanto is nowhere to be seen, which can only mean one thing; Wolf has it with him, tucked into his clothes with his gourds and his sugars and the rest. 

Genichiro wonders if he’ll use it. If he’ll slip up behind any Ministry strays and curl an arm around them, slitting their throats in a spray of red. If he’ll sink it between their ribs and into their hearts. 

If he’ll take what Genichiro has given him, and wield it to keep Ashina safe. 

Genichiro snarls all alone outside Wolf’s room, eyes glowing, need roiling in him like flames.

Then he turns, and goes. There is much to be done, and not all of it can be finished with his sword. 

He finds a set of kunai in a chest, buried in the lower levels of the castle. Excellent workmanship, weighted perfectly for throwing. There are a pair of hand-axes next to them, in need of some attention but no less striking. Genichiro collects other things, not all of them second-hand— a leather pouch from one of his craftsman, like Wolf’s own but without the wear and tear. A new set of whetstones and rags and oil and brushes for tending to his weapons. He’s not entirely cognizant of what he’s doing until he’s back in his rooms with some new trinket.

Genichiro sees something he thinks Wolf would want and can’t leave it behind. He waits a week between courtship offerings— a month is more traditional, but Genichiro doesn’t have the patience. He comes at night to offer them to Wolf one by one, weapons and armor and gear all wrapped in dark silk. Irises glowing red, crooning when Wolf looks his gifts over with keen eyes. Genichiro can’t help it.

He marks the silk with his scent, now. He isn’t aware he’s doing it the first time until it’s already been done. Until he’s breathing himself in as he hands over an ornate dagger, fabric damp with oil from his throat. Genichiro courts Wolf in a daze of instinct.

He saw Wolf kill a man with the tanto he’d given him. Saw him throw a kunai from an impossible distance, an assassin falling off a faraway rooftop like a puppet with cut strings. Watched Wolf slip nimbly down from the roof and pull the kunai free, cleaning it meticulously before stowing it away again. He doesn’t just accept the things Genichiro gives him; he uses them, and uses them well.

Wolf looks increasingly puzzled with every offering Genichiro presents to him. There’s suspicion in his gaze, but he takes them all with a careful reverence nevertheless. He doesn’t say thank you.

He doesn’t say anything.

Genichiro bows, and leaves him, fleeing to his rooms to shove his hands into his clothes and get himself off before he loses his mind. None of the gifts are returned. He can smell the new oil Wolf uses on his blades, can see the leather pouch hanging from his belt. Wolf lets Genichiro provide for him, in the only way he knows how.

Even with all the gifts and quiet declarations of his intent Wolf seems wary, or maybe oblivious. He keeps himself between Genichiro and Kuro anytime the three of them are in a room together, like he still thinks Genichiro might lash out. He doesn’t seek Genichiro’s company. He doesn’t eat at Genichiro’s table.

When he’s close enough Genichiro can sometimes smell the bitter traces of herbs that betas and omegas often use to dampen their scent and halt their cycles. Wolf is still drinking his tea, still taking his meals alone.

All Genichiro can do is keep making offerings. 

Anything else would require words; Genichiro has never been good at using them to get what he needs. Wolf has never been good at using them at all.

They circle one another in silence.

Genichiro starves.

-

Wolf dies.

He  _ dies. _

Kuro is spending time outside his tower, desperate for fresh air after being cooped up for days on end. Wolf is beside him, the pair circling the rear of the castle near the old graves, picking their way down towards the serpent shrine. Genichiro watches them from a high window, something uneasy refusing to quiet in him. He doesn’t think much of it.

There is always something uneasy in him when Wolf isn’t close.

The day is peaceful, clouds rolling slowly across the sky, wind blowing the nightjar kites gently overhead. He has another gift to offer Wolf later that evening— a new set of chainmail to wear under his clothes.

He’s also had a bow made just for Wolf, sized for his draw length, along with a quiver full of brand new arrows. Viciously sharp arrowheads, smooth wood, dark fletching. Genichiro knows Wolf can use a bow even if he never carries one. He isn’t sure why he’s eschewed the weapon in favor of others when he’s clearly proficient in archery. Genichiro has seen him shoot at Kuro’s behest, watched the arrows hit home time and time again. 

Every time he thinks of giving the bow to Wolf he hesitates. Wolf hasn’t returned any offerings so far. Genichiro doesn’t want him to start now. The idea of Wolf using a bow that he’d given him is dizzying in the best way.

The idea of finding it outside his door one morning because Wolf has no use for it is nauseating.

Genichiro watches Wolf follow Kuro down the stairs, the two of them about to slip from his line of sight. Clouds blot out the sun for a moment, shadows flickering eerie over the ground. Everything is strangely hushed. It feels like when Genichiro has drawn his bow, holding the string back, waiting. 

Those few seconds where someone is dead already, and simply doesn’t know it yet.

Wolf feels it, too; he tenses, falling into a crouch and pulling Kuro close as his eyes flit all around him. Searching, searching. He glances up, meeting Genichiro’s stare from so far away it shouldn’t be possible. They hold one another’s gaze. 

Genichiro holds his breath.

Then there are arrows raining down on Wolf, Ministry swordsmen appearing out of nowhere with their weapons drawn. Kusabimaru flashes, the metallic clink of Wolf’s deflections more memory than sound from this distance. Wolf is inhuman in a fight, but there are so many enemies, and he can’t stray too far from Kuro. Can’t stand too close to him. Can’t let the swordsmen gain any ground. They don’t seem to be trying to hurt Kuro, which is worse in some ways.

It means they’re aware of what he is, what he was; the power his blood held, once. It doesn’t anymore, but the Ministry has no way of knowing. Even if they knew they wouldn’t believe.

Not until they put a sword in Kuro and watched him bleed with their own eyes.

Genichiro leans out the window, whistling loud and signaling to the kite nightjar overhead. They swoop into the fray, a few patrolling guards running to Wolf’s aid while another sounds the alarm. Even with the soldiers rallying the odds seem stacked against them. The cannoneers can’t fire without risking their own people, and the nightjar have their hands full with a handful of assassins. 

One of the Ministry soldiers gets their hands on Kuro for a moment; Wolf cuts off his arms at the elbows. There is blood and steel on steel and no easy way for Genichiro to close the distance between them. It’s an effort to pull himself away from the window, but his bow is of no use with Wolf flitting around so wildly and Genichiro can’t sit idly by and do nothing.

He races down the stairs, snarling and red eyed, servants skittering out of his path. His elites see Genichiro with his sword in hand and fall in line behind him, drawing their weapons in readiness. They have questions for him—  _ What’s happening, Lord Genichiro? Where is the Ministry? How many are there? _

Genichiro doesn’t have answers. Doesn’t have words.

All he can do is growl, and run, and seethe. 

Then he reaches the bottom of the stairs where the melee has gravitated, and everything drags in slow motion. Wolf is bloodied and snarling. Two guards have been slain, along with a half-dozen Ministry troops, all of them laying on the ground in that broken way that only corpses manage. Most of the enemies have been put down but there are still archers lying in wait somewhere in the trees. It should be an easy fight to finish, but Wolf is wide eyed, panicked; then Genichiro sees it, too.

There is a flurry of arrows sailing towards Kuro, and Wolf is too far away to reach him. Genichiro runs— shouts— but it’s too little, too late. The picture is already formed in his mind; Kuro’s little body, unearthly still on the ground. 

Wolf throws his grappling hook. Genichiro watches him arc into the air, sword drawn and eyes flashing crimson. He slashes with Kusabimaru, a handful of arrows thudding harmlessly into the dirt. Wolf lands in a crouch, then draws himself upright. His sword hand hangs at his side, hilt held precariously in his fingers. He weaves in place. Stumbles.

Falls, the shaft of an arrow buried in his throat. There’s another in his chest, right between his ribs. A third and fourth protruding from his abdomen. Kuro runs towards him, his shout cutting through the din to eviscerate Genichiro.

_ WOLF! _

Genichiro has already thrown off his armor. Has already drawn his bow, and nocked an arrow. Thunder rumbles overhead. 

It sounds like music, now.

The lightning comes as it always does when he calls, burning through his veins, setting him alight. The archers in the trees are retreating but they won’t be fast enough. Someone, somewhere, is screaming.

It is Genichiro.

His arrows fly true, finding home in hearts, and eyes, and lungs. Something animal in him delights at the way the Ministry archers twitch and seize before collapsing, the smell of burned flesh carried to him on the wind. His fingertips are charred. His eyes are throwing shadows.

Kuro sits on the ground, Wolf pulled into his lap as best he can manage. He glances up at Genichiro’s approach, something hollow in his eyes. Genichiro knows what he’s thinking, even as the accusations rise into his mouth unbidden.

That this is Kuro’s fault. That Kuro did this to him as surely as any Ministry arrows.

That if he hadn’t been so stubborn then his loyal Wolf would return, Kuro’s knife in the darkness. 

The words don’t come. The grief in him is a living thing, boundless and unfathomable. Genichiro has lost people close to him— Wolf has taken many of them with his own hands. 

It never felt like this. 

He’d buried generals who swore their swords to him. Said goodbye to his master, lightning in his skin and fire in his lungs. Watched Isshin waste away before his eyes. It hurt, and he pulled it close, and let it give him strength.

There is no strength in this; Genichiro isn’t meant to put Wolf in the ground. He keens— a mournful sound he’s only heard at funerals, or near someone’s deathbed.

The agony of someone who’s lost their mate.

Wolf might not belong to Genichiro, but Genichiro belongs to Wolf.

Kuro’s eyes widen as his lips part in surprise, but he doesn’t get a chance to speak. There’s the scent of lotus and sakura, and Wolf is lit in a fog of red. His chest heaves, once. He’s pawing through the dirt for his sword before his eyes have finished opening. 

Alive. Breathing. Genichiro has the inane urge to lay a hand over Wolf’s heart, to feel it beat against his palm. There is enough of the dragon’s heritage left to pull him back, this time at least. His irises glint a rusty red when he sits up, blood still pulsing around the arrows in him.

“Are you hurt, my Lord?” Wolf asks, listing to one side. 

He’s got Kusabimaru in hand, knuckles on the ground supporting his weight. Wolf closes his prosthetic around one of the shafts in his belly, jerking it out with a grunt and tossing it away. There’s a fresh gush of blood. Wolf already looks pale with the loss of it.

It would be better to leave them in until Emma can see to him, unless he needs the mobility. Unless he plans to keep fighting, which would be stubborn. Stupid. Wolf drags himself up to his feet, taking a messy swig of his gourd before yanking the arrow out of his heart. He glares and tosses it as well, pulling the last one from his throat with quiet hiss. Genichiro watches him fumble a handful of pellets out of his satchel, press them between his lips with gory fingers. 

Wolf will keep fighting until he’s in pieces.

Genichiro is in love.

He roars out orders to his men, sending them swarming over the area to make sure there are no more Ministry agents hiding anywhere. Then he turns to Wolf and Kuro, trying and failing to bite back his snarl.

“Get Lord Kuro back to the tower,” he snaps, thunder crashing along with his words. “It isn’t safe for him here.”

Wolf’s stony expression shifts. Softens. Only for an instant.

Then he’s got Kusabimaru sheathed and Kuro scooped up in his arms, grappling to the rooftops and vanishing out of sight. There are no more Ministry soldiers nearby, no more blood for Genichiro to spill. 

He calls the lightning anyway. Lets it idle in his flesh too long, until the pain courses through his jaw and rattles his teeth. Until his nose is bleeding. Until his bones all shake.

Genichiro screams and lets it loose back into the sky, borrowed power returning home. 

All of Genichiro’s power is borrowed. It doesn’t matter. He has everything he needs.

Then he thinks of Wolf, and has nothing at all.

-

The bow is too big to wrap in silk. Genichiro had tried, but it looked strange and unwieldy, even without the quiver to go along with it. He brings a scrap of silk anyway, tied around the wood of the bow where it curves, the fabric laden with his scent. 

It’s tradition, after all. 

He holds the bow and quiver in his hands, pulled up against his stomach as he bows low. His hair falls around his face; Genichiro is grateful. 

The flush in his cheeks is humiliating enough, but Genichiro can’t blink the red from his eyes. Can’t calm the want in his scent.

“I’m sorry Lord Genichiro, you… what?” Kuro sounds baffled. Genichiro probably deserves that.

It was difficult enough to say the first time but he’s already here prostrating himself. Once more won’t make things any worse.

“I formally seek your consent to court Wolf, your oathbound shinobi, and make him my mate should he be receptive to my affections.” 

The silence stretches on for what feels like an eternity. All Genichiro can see is the wood floors, his own feet. It isn’t shame, exactly.

That will come when he is refused, but maybe it will help him move forward and leave all this behind. It will hurt; Genichiro is accustomed to that.

Better pain than this endless uncertainty.

“You don’t need to bow, my Lord. Please.” Genichiro rights himself, meeting Kuro’s gaze with pure determination. 

He’s sitting on the floor with a book in his lap, Wolf a few feet away with what appears to be the makings of firecrackers laid out in front of him; gunpowder, rolls of wax paper, candle wicks. Wolf looks more surprised than Genichiro has ever seen him— more surprised than when he took his arm.

More surprised than when Genichiro came back to life, drawn again to Ashina by the healing sediment and the power of his own will. Kuro, too, seems thrown. Such requests are usually made of parents or guardians about their children as they come of age, but Wolf’s loyalty is so absolute that Genichiro doesn’t see a way around it.

Wolf will scarcely breathe without Kuro’s permission. He surely wouldn’t do something so drastic as being taken as the mate of the leader of the Ashina.

“That’s not… something you need to ask me, my Lord. It isn’t up to me. He is not my charge. If you wish to court Wolf, you should simply do so.”

Genichiro grits his teeth.

“I have  _ tried,”  _ he says. Kuro is less shocked now, something like amusement creeping over his face.

“Have you?” Kuro asks, looking from Genichiro to Wolf and back again. Genichiro tightens his grip on the bow and quiver, frustration welling all over again.

“I have presented him with courting gifts weekly for several months, now, and made him a place at my table.”

Every day there was a plate next to Genichiro’s own, sitting untouched in Wolf’s absence, as was customary. The servants didn’t ask who it was meant for, nor did they comment as they cleared it away day after day in silence. Kuro raised his brows, looking to Wolf for an answer.

“Every  _ week?  _ Wolf, is this true?”

There’s pink high in Wolf’s cheeks now. He buries a hand in his clothes, running his fingertips over some weapon Genichiro cannot see. One Genichiro gave him, perhaps.

A thrill runs through him at the thought.

Wolf looks at the floor near Kuro’s knees, brows furrowed and voice low.

“I… thought he was trying to sway me from your service and into his own. I did not realize his intent.”

Genichiro breathes in deep. Breathes out slow.

He wants to shake Wolf.

Wants to pull him close.

“They were wrapped in silk, and scent-marked,” Genichiro says, clipped through a tight jaw.

Kuro’s smile is wide and unmistakable, now. He hums, evidently delighting in the way Wolf can’t meet his eyes.

“The shinobi tea dampens his scent, but takes much of his sense of smell along with it. It’s stronger than what your nightjar use, from what I gather. He’s probably never caught your scent at all, deliberately given or otherwise. Nor is he overly familiar with courtship rituals, it would seem.”

Genichiro bites back a growl. Wolf has  _ never  _ scented him. Not in battle. Not when they fight the Ministry together. 

Not in his rooms at night, unspooling damp silk from Genichiro’s offerings. All this time, and Wolf doesn’t know what Genichiro feels like in his lungs.

Wolf still isn’t looking at him. Kuro is almost smug.

“It’s an honor that you would think to come to me for this, my Lord, but it isn’t necessary. Wolf is my shinobi but I am not his keeper. You may court him, or not, as he wishes.”

Genichiro looks to Wolf, who is finally looking back, eyes roving over him like he’ll find some answer there; in Genichiro’s body. In Genichiro’s stare.

“And what are those wishes?” Genichiro asks. Wolf is quiet.

Silence isn’t a refusal. Genichiro waits.

“Forgive me, Lord Genichiro, but perhaps you’d give him some time to think on it? Until the morning?”

Genichiro takes a step forward and bows again, holding out the bow and quiver to Wolf. As soon as the weight of it vanishes from his hands he turns on his heel and flees back to his quarters. He crouches on the floor, sinks his fingers into his hair. Pulls, until the sting of it quells the urge the scream. 

Genichiro doesn’t go to dinner. He can’t bear the sight of the empty place setting beside his own, the absence where his instincts say Wolf should be. Instead, Genichiro goes to the dojo, sword in hand, and doesn’t put it down until the sun threatens to rise. Exhaustion finally carries him to bed, filthy and breathless as he curls into his futon. 

There is no sound of footsteps. No noise, no knock. It doesn’t matter.

Genichiro feels Wolf there, just outside his door, but when he slides it open there is no one in the halls save his guards at each end. It isn’t empty.

There’s a scrap of silk on the floor at his feet. Genichiro picks it up, fabric soft between his fingers. It’s red, the edges jagged like it’s been cut haphazardly from a larger piece with a knife. 

It’s damp with scent. Genichiro presses it to his nose and breathes, and  _ oh,  _ gods.

Wolf has stopped drinking his tea. Has given Genichiro his favor.

Given him his  _ scent. _

His snarl echoes through the castle; Wolf is fast but he can’t be far.

There’s no way he doesn’t hear.

Genichiro shuts his door and sits down in a heap, hand in his clothes and silk shoved against his face. He had thought Wolf’s scent was intoxicating before, but it had only been an echo. Now it’s visceral.

Now Genichiro is  _ helpless. _

He’s barely touched himself before he comes over his fingers, eyes wrenched shut, Wolf is all there is in the world, even just this small piece of him. His scent, and nothing more.

It’s enough.

Genichiro bathes and dresses. Breakfast is coming soon. 

Wolf is at his table, waiting. There is still mistrust in his gaze, as though he doesn’t believe Genichiro’s intentions are entirely genuine. As though Genichiro simply wants Wolf’s sword at his side, fighting for Ashina whether Kuro likes it or not, and the rest is incidental. 

Wolf could lay his blade down and never fight again and it would do nothing to soothe the need in Genichiro. 

He lifts his chin high, eyes red and fists clenched. Wolf is at his table.

The alpha in him  _ preens.  _

-

Wolf eats with him at almost every meal, watching Genichiro with a suspicion that seems to fade as the days go on. He doesn’t speak much, but that’s nothing new. When he does break the silence it is inevitably about the Ministry— where they need to increase their patrols, ways to counter them, offensive strategies. He’s brilliant in some ways and naive in others.

Mostly, he assumes that Ashina’s soldiers are more skilled than they are in reality; they’re brave, and they’re strong, but after killing so many of Genichiro’s people Wolf should really know better.

Genichiro keeps the scrap of silk Wolf offered him, handling it so much his scent becomes little more than a memory in its folds. He’d do well to preserve it— who knows if he’ll ever get another— but he’s never breathed in anything so divine.

Each day Wolf goes without his shinobi tea, the more powerful his scent becomes. It’s no longer some passive thing that Genichiro can ignore. Every moment spent in his presence is an exercise in self-restraint. Wolf walks into a room and Genichiro growls, teeth sharp and eyes vivid. He wants to drag him close and keep him there.

Wants to mark Wolf with his scent until no one can tell them apart.

Genichiro gives Wolf another offering— a pouch bursting with sugars— and receives another bit of silk outside his door in return. It’s still warm when he picks it up, wet with the oil from Wolf’s glands, the same fraying red edges. Genichiro’s mouth waters. His hand shakes. 

He comes on his feet with his forehead pressed against the wall next to his door, eyes closed and Wolf’s scent thick in his nose. No one is allowed to enter his rooms after that.

The smell of Wolf is a tangible thing, and in his absence, it is only for Genichiro.

No one but Kuro stands near Wolf, anymore; not servants, not soldiers, not Genichiro’s elites. They circle tables on the opposite side of him, and make sure Genichiro is always between Wolf and themselves. When they don’t, Genichiro’s hostility is a presence of its own in the air around them. It is not only space they give Wolf, now, but deference.

Lord Wolf, they say, without an ounce of sarcasm. They bow, and give him room to speak before they answer Genichiro’s questions or respond to his orders. 

They treat him as Genichiro’s mate even without the mark on his throat or the change in his scent. Without the words, without the bond. 

None of that matters as much as the way Wolf starts to unfurl in his presence. The way he is at ease, as much as he is able. When there is no one but the two of them Wolf’s posture relaxes, tension slipping from his muscles. That hypervigilance is still present— Wolf is always waiting for a fight, even in his sleep— but it is less pronounced. 

Genichiro puts him at ease, and it’s an effort not to croon. Shove his face into Wolf’s throat.

Carry Wolf back to his rooms and keep him there until a battle calls them both away. Genichiro doesn’t think he can be gentle with him.

Violence is all he knows. 

-

There are three of Wolf’s scent-marked rags tucked away in Genichiro’s futon when it happens. It takes a while for him to notice; he’s only gone through it once before, and that was years ago.

He wakes up furious, the muted red in his eyes constant. The glow won’t fade entirely, and it makes them ache. He’s hard enough that it hurts, but getting himself off does little to alleviate the need. He digs his fingers into the sore swell of his knot, and hisses. It isn’t all that unusual.

Wolf has Genichiro in an endless state of need. 

By the time he heads down to breakfast he’s in an even fouler mood. Everyone gives him a wide berth; servants skitter out of his path, guards avoid his gaze. Two of his advisors approach, take one look at him, and bow as they mutter apologies. 

_ It can wait, my Lord. _

_ We’ll take care of it. _

He’s growling at nothing when Wolf comes into the room. Genichiro gets a lungful of his scent, and then everything is painted in shades of red for a long, hazy moment. 

When he comes back to himself he’s got Wolf shoved against the wall, nose buried in the curve of his throat as he breathes in deep. An arm around his waist, another fisted in the cloth of his haori between his shoulder blades. Genichiro is dragging his face back and forth across his scent glands. His throat is warm, and damp with oil, and Genichiro opens his mouth and licks up the taste. He shudders all over, jaw trembling with the need to bite.

He can hear himself crooning, can feel it rumbling out of his chest, but Genichiro can’t quiet the noise. There’s lotus and sakura in the air. Genichiro’s want.

The barest hint of slick.

Wolf is  _ wet  _ for him. Genichiro whines.

“My Lord,” Wolf says, palm resting tentatively on his bicep. It does nothing to cut through the fog in his thoughts. “Genichiro,” Wolf tries, even as he tilts his head to the side in blatant submission. 

Wolf slides his hand up over Genichiro’s shoulder, fingers pressing lightly just under his jaw. Genichiro’s glands are so sore that he hisses, but shoves into Wolf’s touch all the same, both their scents spiking in his nose.

Someone shuffles into the room behind them, and Genichiro breaks away from Wolf with a snarl, baring his teeth at some unwitting servant who quickly retraces their steps and flees. When he turns back he finds Wolf disheveled, clothes out of place from Genichiro’s pawing. Breathing hard, and flushed.

Scent marked; heavily so. He’ll smell like alpha for days and days.

Genichiro hadn’t asked permission. 

Genichiro had been a moment from burying his teeth in Wolf’s throat and locking his jaw, instincts trying to put a mark there even without his knot buried in Wolf. He stumbles back a few steps, hands clenched into fists.

“Forgive me,” he mutters, running the backs of his knuckles over his mouth. “My apologies, Lord Wolf.”

If Wolf replies it’s lost in the noise of his retreat, Genichiro stomping down the hall and outside. 

The skies above Ashina castle are black with storm clouds, lightning breaking through them now and then. His want has brought a tempest, roiling with power. It feels good to call it into his skin. Feels good to let it simmer, until he’s almost boiling inside.

Feels good to break himself, instead of letting himself be broken.

There are no guards to be seen; they clear out as soon as Genichiro comes within fifty feet of them. Nightjar in his line of sight on the rooftops duck away to hide. His generals are absent, as well as his elites, his servants. 

Genichiro snaps his bowstring, then destroys part of the guardrail around the lookout tower, growling and irate over nothing at all, before he realizes— he’s gone into rut.

He’s gone into rut for  _ Wolf. _

Back at his room there is a fresh bit of silk for him laden with Wolf’s scent, in spite of the fact that Genichiro has made no offerings of late. It will be another three days before he gives him the next courtship gift. There can only be one reason for the silk, now; Wolf knows he’s in rut. Genichiro thinks of how his servants and guards have been behaving, the way they’re avoiding him like the plague. It isn’t just Wolf who knew. 

Everyone knew. 

Everyone except for Genichiro. 

Ruts tend to last for a few days but the first will be the worst by far. Genichiro spends most of it curled up on his futon, milking his knot until his skin chafes, cock refusing to flag no matter how many times he comes. He doesn’t remember dressing again, doesn’t remember wandering through the halls.

Just finds himself inside Wolf’s quarters in a daze, one of his dirty haori in hand, worn fabric shoved against his face. Wolf isn’t there— small favors, Genichiro thinks, balling the haori up against his chest. He doesn’t mean to take it.

He just can’t put it down.

Genichiro doesn’t try to get off again when he gets back to his rooms. Just crawls into his futon, Wolf’s haori pressed against his face like a child with a blanket. His scent is soaked in to the fabric, so much heavier than the scraps of silk Genichiro has been given so far that his eyes flutter closed. The lust hasn’t abated; Genichiro grinds absently into nothing, growling softly.

Still, with Wolf in his nose, it isn’t long before sleep takes him.

-

He doesn’t pin Wolf against the wall the next day. 

But he does take him by the jaw and coax his head to the side, running his nose along the line of Wolf’s throat, crooning as he inhales. Wolf lets him.

Wolf  _ lets him. _

Genichiro has to get away. It takes all of his willpower not to shove Wolf into the floor and tug his clothes off every time he sees him. Shove his thighs apart. Press his fingers into the slick heat of him.

Listen to him whimper. Watch him shake.

Genichiro isn’t strong enough to resist when they’re together, but he’s strong enough to walk away.

Wolf takes to wearing newer clothes instead of the old ones he usually favors. They’re less faded, less worn. It takes longer than it should for Genichiro to figure out that it’s his fault.

He has a moment of clarity three days into his rut, well past the time when it should have started abating, when he looks around himself to realize he’s made a nest. He doesn’t remember pilfering any more of Wolf’s things, but there are two of Wolf’s shitagi in his bed. The haori Genichiro took on the first day of his rut, a pair of Wolf’s hakama. Some of the leggings he wears tucked beneath the cords of his waraji and shinguards. An obi, as well as one of the wraps he uses on his right forearm. It’s more clothing than Genichiro thought Wolf owned, all tucked away in his futon with a handful of silk scraps, stole in a rut induced daze.

He’s taken so much of Wolf’s clothing that he had to go and find something else to wear. The only thing missing is the faded red scarf he’s rarely without outside the castle walls. Wolf has to know where they’ve all gone, and yet he doesn’t take them back.

None of the servants would dare come into Genichiro’s quarters while he is rutting. The only scents in the air are Wolf’s, and his own. Still, he doesn’t want it to fade away. 

Genichiro retrieves his horo from where it hangs with the rest of his armor— the cloak is bloodstained and littered with holes, but it’s served him well through countless battles and he hasn’t seen the need to replace it just yet. He lays it over the top of the nest he’s built, all of Wolf’s clothing hidden safely underneath.

He can’t keep himself sequestered away in his quarters if his rut is going to linger this way. Emma mentioned that a cycle will last longer if an alpha’s instincts have set themselves on a particular mate. Sometimes weeks. 

The Ministry will not wait quietly for weeks while Genichiro snarls and whines and tortures himself in the quiet of his room, desperate for something he cannot yet have. He takes breakfast there, uncertain of what he might do if Wolf was near. His control is precarious.

It’s difficult enough already not to stalk across the castle.

Tackle him onto the floor. Take him then and there.

The servants tell him that Wolf has been eating at Genichiro’s table in his absence. It isn’t enough to soothe him, but the alpha in Genichiro is pleased. Wolf is carrying weapons he’s given him. Eating food he provides, carrying sugars Genichiro retrieved from Senpou himself. He saw him using his bow the day before— if only for target practice. The Ministry has been quiet.

Genichiro can’t wait to watch him kill their enemies with it.

He swallows down his croon, shoulders his bow, and heads to find his men.

-

Genichiro goes about his day as he always does, or as best he can when every word comes out laced with a growl, a quiet fury simmering in his veins. He walks the perimeter of the castle, double checking their defenses with his own eyes, speaking with the soldiers on patrol. Everyone is still wary; rightfully so. 

His rut has gotten worse instead of easing. Genichiro’s scent is overwhelming, even to his own nose. His temper is short. His eyes throb with crimson light. 

Maybe it’s because he’s never had a true rut since his presentation.

Maybe it’s because Wolf is shadowing him through the castle grounds, following him silently on the rooftops. No one else seems to notice him, but Wolf is like a beacon in the dark for Genichiro. It’s impossible not to feel him there, even without looking. When he gets too close, Genichiro can’t stop his growl from rumbling louder. 

The frustration winds higher and higher until Genichiro thinks he might shatter.

Wolf keeps his offerings. Gives him offerings in turn. Wolf eats at his table, and lets Genichiro steal his clothes. Trails after him on rooftops. Allows Genichiro to scent mark him without burying a blade in his chest.

Wolf is his already, except that he isn’t.

If he wanted Genichiro, surely he would have accepted him by now. Part of Genichiro wishes he’d refuse already— let him take the wound so it could start to heal.

Part of Genichiro wants to keep courting Wolf forever, even without any hope of keeping him, just so he doesn’t have to let him go. 

-

Genichiro’s scouts tell him the Ministry is on the move in the outskirts of Ashina. They’re gathering in the valley, creeping through the reservoir. He pores over a map with his advisors and elites, moving wooden placeholders around and frowning at the numbers. They can turn them back but not without losses; where Genichiro puts his soldiers to meet them will determine how severe those losses end up being. It would be easier if he could concentrate.

His head spins, the lines on the map blurring out of focus. The painted sprawl of Ashina is hazed in the glow of his eyes. Everything falls away to leave him gasping.

Genichiro breathes, and all he can smell is Wolf.

The placeholder in his hand bursts into splinters, wood fragments erupting from it to scatter over the floor and dig into his palm. Blood drips onto the floor, onto the map. Genichiro glares up at the opening in the ceiling with a snarl, picking the worst of the splinters from his hand.

He can’t see Wolf, but he knows he’s there; hiding in the shadows.

  
Watching Genichiro. 

He’s got a scrap of Wolf’s silk in his pocket that he runs his bloody fingers over.

Genichiro wants to eat him alive.

He takes his leave of his advisors with a growl and a muttered apology, stalking through the castle with clenched fists. His instincts carry him unerringly to Wolf’s quarters; the ceiling is open here, too. Wolf’s scarf is laid out across his futon. 

It’s an invitation Genichiro is helpless to deny. 

He falls to his knees, picking the scarf up and pressing it to his face. Genichiro shudders, curling in on himself until he’s prone in Wolf’s bed. He lays on his side, crooning as though Wolf is there to take comfort in the sound. 

Wolf wears his scarf almost every day, the fabric wrapped around his throat and rubbing constantly against his glands. It is Wolf’s scent in its purest form, distilled into something tangible. His instincts surge, telling him to find Wolf. To mark him, and bruise him, and taste him.

To sink in his teeth, and then his knot, until Wolf is shaking, too.

Genichiro bites into the cloth and tugs at it, unable to quiet the impulse. It does little to ease the ache in his jaw but at least it muffles the sounds he’s making. Wolf’s blankets tangle beneath him. He glances up at the hole yawning in the ceiling, fumbling through the folds of his clothes with his free hand. Wolf could be up there watching; Genichiro doesn’t know.

There is too much of him surrounding Genichiro to pick out the nuances in the scent. He hasn’t stopped crooning. Can’t stop. 

He’s empty and alone and the hollow place where Wolf should be is carved into him; Wolf has gutted him with steel.

Now, Wolf guts him with nothing at all.

He rocks his hips against Wolf’s futon and tightens his fingers around his knot, Wolf’s scarf held tight in his teeth as he comes, and croons, and shivers. The emptiness is worse when he finally stills. His glands are swollen in his throat, sore in both wrists, throbbing on the insides of his thighs. They would hurt less if he’d been emptying them, marking up his mate. Draining them steadily as his cycle goes on, as he’s meant to be. Genichiro is soaked with sweat, and overheated. 

Rutsick, he realizes with a huff, closing his eyes and hiding his face in Wolf’s scarf. 

He wants Wolf so badly his body is willing to tear itself apart— to keep him in rut for as long as possible in hopes of luring in his mate. His instincts don’t know better; that Wolf is a predator, not prey.

That Wolf is always the one luring, and never the one being lured.

Genichiro brings Wolf’s scarf with him back to his rooms and tucks it into the nest he’s made with all the rest. Wolf will know he’s taken it before the end of the day, but Genichiro is powerless to stop himself. His body is ravaged with instinct, and need. There’s fever, and the agony in his teeth.

Genichiro is some pathetic animal chained just out of reach of his water. 

He drags himself to the bath and lingers there, hoping the heat will wash away some of the tension that’s taken up residence in his muscles. It doesn’t, but the baths are quiet and isolated and no one comes to bother him. Genichiro dozes off with his head lolled back on the stone rim of the bath, startling back to awareness hours later when he sags part way into the water in his sleep.

It’s well after dark by the time he makes his way back to his rooms, shitagi hanging loose around his waist, moonlight filtering through the castle windows. Everything is hushed, guards stepping softly as they patrol. They offer Genichiro shallow bows but keep moving, steadily making their rounds. 

There are no elites patrolling near Genichiro’s rooms. No soldiers, no servants. They walk up to the edge of the hall, then pause and head the other direction. Genichiro frowns, brows furrowed— even while he’s been locked away in his quarters in the sway of his rut, they never changed their patterns to avoid him. The closer he gets to his rooms, the more obvious it is that something is amiss.

Then he slides his door open, and Genichiro freezes.

Wolf is in his bed, laid out atop his horo, cheeks flushed pink and eyes glassy. He’s got the cloak clenched in his prosthetic, cloth pressed to his face. His thighs are thrown wide, feet bare, toes curling against Genichiro’s futon.

His other hand is shoved into his hakama; Genichiro can see his fingers moving under the fabric, can smell the sweet scent of his slick.

The scent of his  _ heat.  _

Genichiro snarls. He steps into the room and slides the door closed behind him, his body moving on its own. No one else has the right to see Wolf this way. Wolf glances up at the sound, blinking slow and looking around in confusion like he isn’t sure how he ended up here— in Genichiro’s room. In Genichiro’s bed. 

Genichiro thinks of how he’s spent the last week in a daze, stealing Wolf’s clothes and shoving his face into his throat uninvited. He can’t fault Wolf for this, even if it’s torture. 

Sometimes, instincts just won’t be denied.

Wolf doesn’t stop touching himself, breath hitching as he presses his fingers deeper and arches his spine. Genichiro’s eyes flare eerily bright. He clenches his fists, and whines.

“Please,” Genichiro says, chest rising and falling like he can’t get enough air. “I cannot do this. You have to go.”

Genichiro is on fire with want. Wolf is in his bed, wet and warm and needful. In heat.

In heat for  _ Genichiro,  _ but he still hasn’t accepted him. 

He isn’t strong enough to deny himself this for long. Genichiro’s nails cut into his palms, his teeth grinding together. It would be so easy to take him. 

It would tear everything apart.

Genichiro has worked too hard to throw it all away.

“Cannot do what?” Wolf slurs, and Genichiro bares his teeth.

“You are in  _ heat,”  _ he spits, hissing it like an accusation. “Gods, the way you  _ smell,  _ it  _ hurts.  _ This is cruel. Even for you.”

Wolf blinks and shakes his head. His eyes rove unseeing around the room, as though he’s trying to catch up with what Genichiro is saying. 

Like it is some sort of surprise to hear that he’s in heat.There’s a moment of quiet, of stillness. Wolf pulls his hand out of his clothes to stare at the wetness there, slick dripping over his knuckles. The scent is enough to bring Genichiro to his knees; he lands hard on the wooden floors, swaying. 

He didn’t know.

Wolf is in heat, and he didn’t know. It isn’t something anyone could forget, not if they’d been through it already. Heats are crippling, all encompassing; he’s never had a cycle before now. Betas are only drawn into one by the sheer, merciless want of an alpha. Wolf has never experienced it.

It’s only for Genichiro. 

“Cruel?”

It’s a breath more than a word. Genichiro groans.

“Cruel that you are here, like this, and I cannot have you. Please, Wolf.”

Wolf holds his gaze for a long moment, then starts pulling at his clothes. He shrugs out of his haori, unties his obi and hakama. Kicks them off, naked underneath— he’s not wearing his armor, or his shitagi. There’s no chainmail, no leggings. Nothing but skin, and Wolf lays back in the nest Genichiro made, cloak all twisted up with Wolf’s clothing. 

He tilts his head to the side as far as it will go, a blatant show of submission, sliding his legs apart. There’s slick on the insides of his thighs.

Genichiro stares at Wolf’s cunt, cock hard where it curves up from between his swollen lips, so wet that he shimmers in the candlelight. He reaches up over his head, hands fisted in his own clothes.

“Have me, then,” Wolf says, throat exposed and body laid bare. “I’m yours already.”

Genichiro exhales hard, chest heaving.

“Wolf,” he says warningly. Wolf scrapes his fingernails over the glands in his throat, scent riling thicker in the air.

“Please, Genichiro.”

Genichiro wants to eat him alive.

Wolf wants it, too.

He moves so quickly Wolf barely manages a breath before Genichiro’s mouth is on his, a palm laid possessively over his sex as he kisses him hard. Wolf is hot like an open flame against his skin, so wet that Genichiro’s hand slides against him. His lips part further, letting Genichiro in, tongue pressing deep. 

Wolf opens beautifully— his mouth, his thighs, the expanse of his throat. He ruts forward into Genichiro’s touch, shivering. It’s everything Genichiro has been craving for months.

It’s more than he could have imagined.

He breaks away from Wolf’s mouth to shove his face underneath his jaw, rubbing against the glands there until the oil wells up for him. Genichiro has tasted it before; he tastes it again now, sucking at the inflamed skin of Wolf’s pulse point, fingers slipping absently into his cunt. It’s not deliberate. 

Wolf is just too wet for anything else. He trembles as Genichiro presses his fingers in, and in, and in, slick pulsing out around his knuckles. There’s a wounded sound, Wolf clinging to him. He’s coming, Genichiro realizes, falling apart at the barest of contact. 

Genichiro croons, working him through it until the worst of the shakes have stopped. Wolf’s throat bruises easily under his teeth, like fruit ripe for the taking.

Like he’s been waiting.

“Mine,” Genichiro says, easing his fingers out of Wolf and lifting them to his lips. He shoves them into his mouth, laving up Wolf’s slick.

Genichiro isn’t ready for the taste of him. 

He’s scented traces of it on Wolf, and on omegas before that— in brothels, or on prostitutes following after the troops when they extended themselves out into Ashina to face their enemies. No mate of any lords or ladies would be caught out of their chambers during a heat. 

Betas can’t sustain themselves for an entire cycle, or so Genichiro has heard. After the first day or so they need oil to keep themselves slick. Wolf will need it, too, but right now there is so much that it’s soaking through Genichiro’s futon, ruining all Wolf’s clothes. 

Right now it’s spilling over Genichiro’s tongue, and he snarls. Warm, and thick, and heady.

He drops down to shove his face between Wolf’s thighs, latching his mouth onto the heat of Wolf’s cunt to drink it up from the source. Wolf jerks like he’s been hit with Genichiro’s lightning, both hands fisting in his hair to hold him in place. His cock is hard, curving up against his belly, utterly ignored. There’s come smeared over his stomach already from his earlier orgasm. 

Genichiro loops his arms underneath Wolf’s thighs, reaching up to rub the mess into Wolf’s skin as he licks into him as far as he can. His croon vibrates against Wolf’s sex, rumbling through every inch of him. The glands on Genichiro’s wrists already feel less swollen as he brushes them over Wolf everywhere he can he reach, marking him heavily with his scent. It will linger for weeks.

It will never come clean. Genichiro will put his scent there again, and again, until no one remembers what Wolf smelled like on his own.

Wolf tastes like honey and lust and the fire in Genichiro’s blood. The sounds he’s making are shamelessly loud— everyone will hear him.

Genichiro wants them to; he licks deeper into his slit, Wolf’s thighs shaking as he moans.

As he calls Genichiro’s name, and tugs at his hair, coming into his mouth and on his knuckles and shuddering like he’s dying all over again. No one else will ever taste this— feel Wolf under their tongue, hands in their hair, skin on skin.

Wolf only lets people close to put his sword in them.

There is only Genichiro.

His slick is dripping down Genichiro’s chin, soaking into his messy hair. He pulls back, rubbing his throat against the glands on the insides of Wolf’s thighs. Genichiro croons louder, licking over the place where Wolf’s scent is the strongest, then biting down with a growl. His lashes flutter, eyes rolling up into his head— Wolf tastes divine. He mouths up bruises on one side, then the other, leaving a scattering of imprints of his teeth. 

When he’s finally satisfied with how well he’s marked Wolf there, he pulls back, eyes lidded like he’s drugged. Genichiro presses his fingers into Wolf again— all four of them, the slide easy. Wolf is looking down at him with his pupils blown black, his jaw shivering as rocks into his touch.

“Has anyone ever had you like this?” Genichiro asks. It doesn’t really matter. Genichiro would still want him just as savagely, but he needs to know.

Even fucked out and falling apart, Wolf manages a smirk. He shakes his head, jaw dropping wider as Genichiro crooks his fingers inside him.

“Tell me,” Genichiro says, nuzzling into the join of his thigh, trying to coax another orgasm out of him. “Say it.”

Wolf’s breathing hitches, words caught up in his throat as he twitches against Genichiro’s hand. Against his mouth. He comes again, wet on Genichiro’s tongue, streaks of white painted over his stomach. When he speaks his voice is rougher than before, laced with a fondness that makes Genichiro warm inside.

“There’s only been you, Genichiro.”

Genichiro surges up to take his mouth again. To let Wolf taste himself on Genichiro’s tongue. He grinds his cock against the heat of Wolf’s slit, reaching down to take himself in hand, rubbing his crown teasingly over Wolf without pressing forward. Wolf tugs at his hair and digs his heels into Genichiro’s back— he is impatient.

Wolf is  _ never  _ impatient. Genichiro cannot stop the satisfied glee that rolls through him at the thought. Wolf is making helpless little sounds into his mouth and clawing at his skin and rutting into his cock. Begging with every last inch of himself.

Genichiro has made him this way; a desperate, animal thing. Drawn into a heat by Genichiro’s cycle, mindless and wanting. Breathtaking.

Beautiful.

“Going to knot you,” Genichiro mumbles into Wolf’s lips, and Wolf nods frantically, trying to rock down onto his cock. Genichiro presses in slightly, only the crown breaching him, dragging his mouth down to scrape his teeth over Wolf’s throat. “Going to mark you, and keep you. Make you all mine.”

Genichiro can feel slick dripping around him, Wolf’s walls like silk against his cock.

“Please, Genichiro. Need you. It hurts.” It’s whined through clenched teeth, Wolf’s hands trembling against his chest. Genichiro can’t have that.

“Shh,” he says, pressing into Wolf until he’s buried all the way inside. “I have you.”

His knot is already swollen. Not wide enough to lock them together yet, but big enough that he has to grind forward to seat himself fully. Wolf makes a noise that Genichiro’s never heard before, head falling to the side, body going limp.

“Mine,” Genichiro says, and sinks his teeth deep in Wolf’s throat.

The bond takes. Settles. The change in them both is nothing Genichiro can feel.

It’s something he can taste; Wolf’s blood on his tongue is sweet. Wolf’s fingers in his hair clutch tight. He’s twitching around him, the scent of them tangled together in the air. 

Wolf is  _ his.  _

The sting in his throat is a surprise, even if it shouldn’t be— of course Wolf would mark him in return. Bury his teeth in Genichiro, deep enough that it aches. His croon comes like breathing. Like the beating of his heart.

It is easy, even when he’s bleeding.

If nothing else, Genichiro knows how to do this.

Wolf releases his bite first, mewling out another soft noise as Genichiro grinds into him. He can’t push any deeper, but he rolls his hips forward anyway, feels Wolf twitch around his knot. Genichiro lets go of his hold on Wolf’s throat, rubbing his face into the wound he’s left behind for a moment before easing back. There are tears tracking silently down Wolf’s cheeks. His mouth is smeared with blood, teeth stained pink and skin shining with Genichiro’s scent. It’s violent.

He’s gorgeous.

Genichiro leans down to lick up his tears, unwilling to let any of Wolf go to waste. 

Then he fucks into him with a violence he cannot hold back, teeth seeking skin again and again. Genichiro is muttering the only prayer he knows.

Wolf, Wolf.

Wolf answers him in whimpers and insistent kisses, begging when he can’t help himself— he’s the most vicious creature Genichiro has ever met.

Genichiro is his. He is Genichiro’s.

Genichiro comes with a snarl, knot swelling to tie them both together. He rubs his palm in slow circles over the mess on Wolf’s stomach— no seed will take in a beta’s first heat with their mate, but that doesn’t stop the most ancient parts of Genichiro from growling euphorically at the idea. 

Wolf’s eyes are lidded, his body pliant. He’s drugged on Genichiro’s knot, as docile as Genichiro has ever seen him. They kiss until Genichiro’s mouth is sore, Wolf’s cunt spasming around him to milk out every last pulse of come. He won’t stop filling him until his knot goes down, and then the heat will rise in Wolf again, and again.

For now, Wolf needs rest. Genichiro tugs his cloak out from underneath them both and pulls it over Wolf, preening as he nestles against his chest and closes his eyes. 

Genichiro’s station is something he inherited from Isshin. His lightning borrowed from Tomoe. Ashina something he protects, even without any real claim to it.

Wolf is his in a way nothing else has ever been. 

Genichiro is in love.

-

Their cycles linger together for a few days before passing. The sediment and Wolf’s gourd are powerful but inelegant things. They leave Genichiro’s teeth in Wolf’s throat. Leave Wolf’s bites on Genichiro. The bruises, the scratch marks. None of it fades like they’re used to, healing as slowly as any mortal’s wounds. 

Even afterwards, the marks stay behind, scarred bright and vicious over their glands. Wolf moves his meager possessions into Genichiro’s quarters without being prompted. He still doesn’t speak much, but then again, neither does Genichiro. The silence between them isn’t a burden. 

Wolf is as dangerous as always. Genichiro scent marks him every morning, and draws him into bed every night, room bathed in darkness as they sink into one another. He fits perfectly in his arms.

All of Genichiro fits right, now.

They fight together. All the weapons in Ashina aren’t enough to bring them down.

They’ll never be enough.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to keio, as always, for sponsoring this fic! Tell me nice things, here or on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/scifictioness?lang=en)


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